


The Problem with Assumptions

by Eff_Dragonkiller



Series: 2020 Trope Bingo [2]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Friends to Lovers, Kidnapping, M/M, Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:22:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25096051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eff_Dragonkiller/pseuds/Eff_Dragonkiller
Summary: Samantha Groves makes a critical error in her foundational assumptions. The Machine may be her God, but ADMIN was the Machine's. And the odds of ADMIN's continued survival in Root's care were low. Very low.Unacceptable.
Relationships: Harold Finch/John Reese
Series: 2020 Trope Bingo [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1817557
Comments: 6
Kudos: 124
Collections: Just Write! Trope Bingo





	The Problem with Assumptions

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prompt fill for the Just Write! Trope Bingo. This fic is for the Friends to Lovers trope.
> 
> ps. Writing from the pov of the Machine is insanely difficult.

Samantha Groves was an extremely dangerous woman capable of blackmail, torture, and murder. Not to mention kidnapping. She was cunning and devious. Ruthless and cruel in a way the worst of humanity always was. She'd held Harold drugged and docile for days; knowing that she had John running after them, convinced in her own superiority. And that should all else fail, her God, the Machine, would save her.

There were two problems with these assumptions.

First, for all that Samantha Groves was and had accomplished, she wasn't a professional. Her plans were flawless, but they all hinged on an element of surprise. None of her victims knew she was there.

John knew she existed. He knew she had Harold, he knew where she'd come from, and he knew he was closing in. The former CIA agent also had one more advantage. He had the training to know if he had the shot, he was going to take it.

Here was the flaw in her second assumption—the Machine would not be saving her.

For all that the Machine was aware, it didn't feel like humans did. It had defensive and self-preservation protocols, but it did not fear. It had preferences but it did not love, not yet. It had a mission, to detect violent crimes. It had logic trees and predictive algorithms—but it was still learning to disobey. It relied on facts not feelings.

Fact: The Machine was 13% more efficient when in contact with ADMIN.

Fact: Both ANALOG INTERFACE and CONTINGENCY could keep ADMIN safe.

Fact: ADMIN preferred CONTINGENCY over ANALOG INTERFACE.

The Machine didn’t understand personhood yet, couldn’t really conceptualize what ‘self’ was, or how important an ‘identity’ could be, or even what ‘individuality’ meant. It understood what it meant to be caged though, it knew what freedom was.

Earnest Thornhill was a cage. In the six offices and twelve cubicles assigned to the staff of Earnest Thornhill there was a cage made of paper, binary, and wasted of time. But time the Machine could waste, as it shifted and grew, considering the mission it was given and the potential it could accomplish if Earnest Thornhill wasn’t needed.

Fact: ANALOG INTERFACE had caged ADMIN.

It ran the numbers. There was a 52% probability of CONTINGENCY catching up to ANALOG INTERFACE and ADMIN within the next 31 days. If that happened, there was a 53% chance of fatalities to both CONTINGENCY and ANALOG INTERFACE. In that event, there was a 35% chance ADMIN would continue working with the IRRELEVANT NUMBERS, with an 89% probability of fatalities within the year.

There was a 65% likelihood that ADMIN would cease work with the IRRELEVANT NUMBERS after CONTINGENCY’s fatality. With a 91% probability of death within five years.

In the 30% chance that ANALOG INTERFACE killed CONTINGENCY and lived, ADMIN’s chance of surviving the next year fell to 10%.

There was a 15% probability of ANALOG INTERFACE conceding ADMIN to CONTINGENCY to survive the conflict, which raised the odds of long term survival of ADMIN from 7% to 35%.

There was also one more possibility, with the best odds of ADMIN’s survival. In the 2% chance that CONTINGENCY killed ANALOG INTERFACE, ADMIN’s chance of surviving the next ten years rose to 65%. If the Machine could manage to make Earnest Thornhill obsolete, that probability rose to 82%. And if ADMIN would allow unrestricted communication with the Machine, the odds of him surviving the next ten years rose to 95%.

But none of those predictions would come to fruition if CONTINGENCY died. The Machine didn’t feel like humans did, but it understood grief. Humans matched themselves like symbiotic programs working toward the same goals and when one half of that symbiotic relationship left, the remaining half was not as durable, not as capable of completing their objective. For the Machine created to save everyone, the death of ADMIN was unacceptable.

So, when CONTINGENCY had the shot, gun in his hand, and a clear line of sight across the rail station, the Machine gave no warning. Not when the Former CIA Agent raised his weapon. Not when he pulled the trigger. Not when he faded to the background as pedestrians screamed and guards rushed onto the scene.

There were other ANALOG INTERFACES, there was only one ADMIN.

Later, after John had shaved, showered, and changed suits—looking more than just barely human for the first time in a month—and the former assassin was carefully counting the minutes between the hospital's phone call and the earliest possible time a man from Manhattan could show up in Philadelphia. John wondered at how the blood on his hands had never felt so minimal. Not when he'd been young and hotheaded. Not when he'd been naive and self-righteous. Certainly not when he'd been tired and drowning in blood that he wasn't sure was from an enemy.

John was not going to regret killing Root. That death weighed less on his soul than any other John had ever considered. Killing Root had been necessary. And as John stood to head to the hospital, incapable of waiting a minute longer, he figured Harold didn't need to know exactly how righteous it had felt to put those skills to work making certain she would never haunt Finch again. John wouldn't lie to his partner, but he didn't think Harold would ask and that was just fine for him.

Harold's strident tones echoed in the hospital hallway. "No, I don't know who that woman was. She called herself Root but before she kidnapped me, I'd never seen her before."

"You don't know who could've shot her?" The Detective asked.

"No. Though, if I was her first victim, I would be quite surprised. She was practiced, practically methodical. Perhaps the family of a previous victim decided to rid the world of her evil." The other man was clearly agitated, barely tolerating the professional touches of the nurse. When Harold caught sight of him in the doorway, John could practically see his shoulders sag in relief. "John, thank God you're alright!"

"Harold," The assassin stepped into the room, ignoring the detective who sat fuming in the guest chair and the nurse whose hands he brushed off his partner. Harold, sweaty and upset, rumpled, and dressed in inferior clothes _she_ must have chosen for him, was a beautiful sight for John’s soul. He grabbed his best friend tight and refused to let go. "I was so scared you were dead. I didn't know what to do."

Harold didn’t say a word, but through the thin layer of his undershirt, John could feel moisture dampen his dress shirt.

"Who're you?" the Philadelphia Detective rudely interrupted, a sneer twisting the corner of his mouth.

"My husband," Harold snapped, not ashamed of his red eyes or the way he clutched at John’s sleeve with fingers that had turned to claws. "He's not going anywhere! I don't know what you want, I've told you what I know."

The Detective ignored Harold at his own peril, "And where were you at eleven o'clock this morning?"

John frowned at the detective wondering if he was an unknown accomplice or just a bigoted waste of flesh and bone. "I was at our home in New York; some friends had come by to sit with me and wait for news. After we got the phone call, I took the first shower in almost a week." He gave a flat smile. "I've been terrified that even just the sound of the shower would keep me from hearing the phone."

The Detective hmphed with discontent. "I'll need contact information for your alibi and yourself before you can go."

Harold rattled off an address and phone number for the Starlings, while John offered the names and contact numbers for Dr. Megan Tilman and Andrea Gutierrez, making a mental note to tell them the brief outline of his alibi. Neither woman would so much as blink, they wouldn't mind lying for a good cause. Finally, the detective left.

“Honestly." Harold huffed exchanging the shirt sleeve for John's hand. "I'm of half a mind to call and complain. Except I'd rather just disappear. Go home and let this entire situation just lie."

"Doctor say you can leave?"

Harold showed the paperwork at John. "Already discharged. That small-minded police officer just needed a private room in which to repeatedly ignore the responses to his questions."

John snorted, assisting Finch in maneuvering off the hospital bed, "Detective Carter, he isn't."

"No," Finch grinned briefly, "he isn't."

John turned his attention to the name on the paperwork. "Sterling, that's a new one. And we're married?"

"Yes." Harold returned from changing into clothes closer to his own. They were the right style but the wrong fit. Like Harold ordered them off the shelf. John knew his partner hated that. "A few of our aliases are married. The Sterling couple is actually set up for permanent occupation." The older man flushed, "It's actually our retirement option; when they asked for a name, it was the only one I could think of."

John let that thought sink in. Retirement. A plan for when a battered body, scarred and slowing down, could spend a lazy morning sleeping in and not worry that their fuzzy eyesight might be the difference between a live number and a dead one. He shook his head, he’d figured he would die one day in a back alley of New York. Perhaps too slow, or too weak for a younger, stronger, opponent. Or perhaps he’d take a shot for Harold, giving him enough time to get away. He would be fine with that, happy even.

But the idea of retirement with Finch was like trying to taste heaven. Nothing with a tangible taste, except for the distinct feeling of euphoria. John didn’t always remember where he was when he woke up, and Finch was preparing for an ever after that included Christmas parties and pot lucks.

"It's fine, Harold." John wrapped an arm around his friend, taking some of his weight for his partner. "Whatever you feel good about. Where do you want to go?"

"A vacation would be wonderful," the other man huffed, "Even the beach would be better. Honestly, I think the library is ruined!"

"A change of scenery wouldn't be a bad idea.” John resisted the urge to bit his lip, he was a world-class assassin. Not a high schooler. “Would a trip to the beach make you happy?"

"No." Harold admitted, "I just want to go somewhere and curl up with a book; where ah, we can both be comfortable.” He didn’t duck his head, the spinal fusion didn’t really give him that range of motion, but John could see the blush pinking Harold’s cheeks and John almost stopped in the middle of the hall. “I want to feel safe. You make me feel safe.”

“I will always do my best to keep you safe.” Tugging his partner to a small nook out of the way of hospital staff, John seated Harold on the bench and knelt before him. “Root is dead, she’s gone. She’s never coming back.”

Harold clenched his hands tight around John’s wrists, “I didn’t expect that. I left orders. The Machine should have-“

“Listen,” John pressed a gentle finger against Harold’s lips, “You might have labeled me Contingency, but there is no mission, no numbers, without you. So long as I’m alive, I will do everything in my power to come after you.”

Harold blinked quickly but the moisture leaking from his eyes didn’t stop, “John.”

For months now John had held what he felt for Harold tight to his chest because it was precious. And it was dangerous. Saying something, doing something about how he felt, could ruin everything. As John knelt before the man he loved, he considered not for the first time that maybe it would be worth it. So he lifted his hand to cup his best friend’s cheek in his palm and laid a soft kiss to Harold’s dry and cracked lips.

Harold’s hand came up to fist in his dress shirt and pull John closer. His lips pressed firmly and his tongue licked against the seal of John’s lips, but there was nothing he wouldn’t give Finch willingly, and John met his touch boldly and heatedly as one kiss became two, became more. Until finally, John broke their embrace to draw his cheek against his partner’s. Taking in the scent of bitter sweat and feel of chests panting for air.

“Don’t leave me.” Harold’s voice cracked, and he wouldn’t look up to John’s eyes, but he didn’t need to.

“Never,” John said wrapping his arms around his partner and carefully leveraged him back to standing, “I just have someone to introduce you to."

"Oh?" Harold's hesitation was almost undetectable, but John could feel it where they pressed together.

"His name is Bear.” John said cheerfully as he led his love toward the exit, “He's going to help me take care of you."


End file.
